


black and red came tumbling down

by writeforyou



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Red Wedding, Violence, Yeah you know what this means, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2475092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeforyou/pseuds/writeforyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Any other time, Merlin was sure that the Riverlands were a sight to behold. The castle stood tall and proud amidst the flow of the river. Years of family honour and battles being fought at the borders had meant that the loyalty of the Frey family was incredibly important to the chances of success to a side. But now, with the darkness all around them and the cold, bitter wind, it seemed daunting to approach. Although, maybe that was because it didn’t feel right that Merlin was standing there.</p>
<p>Game of Thrones/Red Wedding AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	black and red came tumbling down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shepherd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shepherd/gifts).



> I was talking about this with Shepherd a long time ago and I wrote a lot, and I only recently found it again and decided to finish tit. It's kind of based on how Shepherd wished Merlin could be, very game of thrones-y, bloody and even more heartbreaking than the original series.
> 
> Beta'd by Shepherd :)
> 
> Warnings for major character death and violence. Also for spoilers for Game of Thrones S3.

 

Any other time, Merlin was sure that the Riverlands were a sight to behold. The castle stood tall and proud amidst the flow of the river. Years of family honour and battles being fought at the borders had meant that the loyalty of the Frey family was incredibly important to the chances of success to a side. But now, with the darkness all around them and the cold, bitter wind, it seemed daunting to approach. Although, maybe that was because it didn’t feel right that Merlin was standing there.

Uther had told him tersely about the agreement between the Pendragon House and the Frey, the terms that would guarantee valuable support in battle, when things had begun to get serious, but Arthur was never one to refuse how he felt, even if that meant breaking a marriage between himself and Lady Guinevere. Merlin had been just as weak to what Arthur offered him – love, friendship, a place at his side – but that didn’t mean he didn’t see the blatant disrespect of Arthur bring him along.

“You’re my consort, Merlin,” Arthur insisted when Merlin had carefully suggested staying behind, “Of course you’re coming.”

And of course, no one could say ‘no’ the King of the North.

Merlin lagged behind in the party, led by Arthur and Uther, not exactly in a hurry to get to the castle, and wondered, absentmindedly stroking the knotted mane of his horse. He would need to give her a good brush when they got there, he decided distractedly. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want to be there. His magic just seemed to be churning in objection, but maybe that was just nerves. This would be his first official visit to a noble family’s home as consort to the King, and this was already doing to be awkward enough without having to worry about proprietary.

“Merlin?”

He pulled himself from his thoughts by the gentle voice and turned towards it. Lancelot watched him with concern in his eyes, and Merlin tried to smile reassuringly. Cousin of the King, Lancelot was the personification of chivalry. It made a change to the drunken brutes that Merlin had grown used to dealing with. He had been the first pleasant person in the camp, to accept his magic, to accept his marriage to Arthur, and Merlin valued his friendship above all else, especially since it had been Lancelot who had agreed to take on the marriage contract that ensured that Merlin could marry his love.

“Are you okay?” Lancelot wondered.

“What? Oh, yes, I’m fine…just…” Merlin trailed off.

“Nervous?” Lancelot supplied, “Yes, I do suppose you would be.”

“No more than you,” he tried to change the subject, “It is you, after all, who will have himself a wife by the time tomorrow is done.”

“It’s an honour,” Lancelot stated honestly, “to marry one as beautiful and kind as Lady Guinevere.”

Merlin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at the words and eyed his friend. It was the raw sincerity of the words, and the seeming involuntary curl of his lips upward that clued Merlin in, and really he should have seen it sooner.

“You have feelings for her,” he declared.

Lancelot flushed embarrassed. “No, of course not. That would be…wildly inappropriate since it was only recently that she betrothed to my cousin a-and I love Arthur with all my heart. I would never…”

Merlin arched an eyebrow, amused and unconvinced, and Lancelot sighed, shoulders slumping forward. He gave his friend a pathetically shy look.

“Am I truly that obvious with my emotions?” he wondered.

“It is not a bad thing,” Merlin reassured, “But yes. No man speaks so fondly of the bride they have yet to meet.”

“But we have met,” Lancelot admitted, “Once before, at a gathering at my father’s home. It was years ago, I was but a boy. The Frey’s came and Guinevere…even then she was…more than I could ever hope for.”

Merlin smiled softly at the words, and reached across to rest his hand on his arm, squeezing carefully. “If you believe that, then I see no reason why she would be unable to return your affections.”

“Perhaps she has favour for your husband,” Lancelot reminded him with a glum tinge to his voice, and a sad smile as if it was something he had grown used to, “I am a sore replacement for King Arthur.”

“Arthur’s a prat,” Merlin blurted out, honest, and Lancelot laughed despite himself, and the consort grinned, pleased by his achievement. “I promise you, once you two meet again, she will not be able to stop herself falling for you.”

“I do hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” he stated as a reminder and squeezed his arm one last time.

 

*

 

Merlin had grown up in Ealdor, a small island near Casterly Rock, with only his mother Hunith. It wasn’t unusual. Many of the children on the island had grown up without their fathers. When King Cenred had begun his war with the Mad Queen Nimueh, any capable man had answered to the call to arms. Balinor had been one of them.

He didn’t know much about his father. He wanted to ask, but any mention of his father brought this tight expression to his mother’s face and the last thing he wanted was to be the cause of more pain and distress for her. He did know that it was his father who he had inherited his magic from. Magic was dying out, ever since the Purge over a century ago, and magic users had either fled or died at the hands of the soldiers. Now though, magic was needed to help, to heal, to fight, and with the war between Cenred’s son, Mordred, and Arthur after the execution of his mother, Ygraine, Merlin had just wanted to help, even if that meant leaving his mother behind.

Hunith had begged and pleaded, desperate to keep him safe and all too aware of his father’s fate, but Merlin was stubborn. He held his mother’s hands tightly in his own and made her look him in the eye. “I have to,” he told her, “I have to help.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t have to do anything for that stupid war,” Hunith insisted.

“You are the one that told me to use my powers to tend to others and across the waters there are hundreds and thousands of innocents that need to be protected. I have to do this.  Please understand that.”

“Just…live, Merlin, promise me you will do that. That you will live,” Hunith forced him to promise, and Merlin obliged, pressing a kiss to the back of her hands. He had left early the next morning.

It was on a battlefield that he met Arthur. It had been harsh and bloody and when the King’s men had finally retreated, there was a plethora of open wounds and mangled bodies to deal with. Merlin had followed the cries of pain, smiled as encouragingly as he could and tended to their wounds, pressing his palms against the bloody gashes and muttering incantations until the very worst had closed up.

There had been a few though, men and women that had been caught in the crossfire and would not be able to make it through the night. Freya had been one of the unlucky ones. No matter how many words that Merlin desperately muttered, no matter how hard he prayed, nothing could fix the marks of swords and axes in her body. She rested a hand on his shoulder, and smiled comfortingly. At him, as if he were the one crawling towards death.

“Stop, it’s…fine,” she told him, her voice cracking.

“I can try more things, I,” Merlin persisted firmly, and pressed hardly down on the wound, an attempt to slow the bleeding while he thought. He just needed to think and he would…

She shushed him soothingly. “Stop now. Just…sit with me, please.”

And how could he refuse? He held her hand tightly and when she asked him to tell her a story, he choked over his words to get it out.

“Healer!” a voice shouted at him, halting the story, and Merlin raised his head to meet the gaze of Valiant, a captain in King Arthur’s army. The king himself stood by his side, watching silently, but Merlin barely played him any mind. Valiant’s eyes flittered between Freya and himself, and his lips curled in distaste. “Surely one of our men needs attention more than this one.”

“Your men are not my men,” Merlin snapped back, suddenly feeling tired, so tired. Freya was not the first to die and she would not be the last, just as Valiant was not the first to see the worthlessness in being there when someone passed to the other side. He glanced back down to Freya, whose breathing was labouring, and he clutched her hand. She smiled weakly.

Metal clanged as Arthur lowered himself to the ground at Freya’s side, and Merlin glanced up at him, confused before his eyes dropped again. Arthur watched her, eyes drooped and a frown in place.

“Can she not be saved?” he asked quietly.

Merlin made an abortive noise. “I have tried. There is nothing I can do.”

“There is,” Arthur told him firmly, and Merlin frowned opening his mouth to defend himself, defend his magic, to shout that if there were a way, he would have done so already, when the king continued, “You can finish the tale. I am sure she would love to hear the end of it.”

Freya died before the end of the story, her hand limp in his own, but Merlin kept whispering until his voice was nothing but a rasp of emotion that he couldn’t control. His eyes watered and he sniffed loudly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked at Arthur over the top of his hand, wonderingly, curious.

“What is your name?” Arthur finally asked, tilting his head towards him.

“Merlin.”

“Your family name?”

Anger flickered inside of him. “You want to know what side my family fights for.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened slightly. “You are a sorcerer. Magic uses have never been known for fighting with the North.”

“Just because your father rejects the use of magic, doesn’t mean that we will automatically side with Mordred,” Merlin retorted and stood up. He needed to get away, needed to get Freya’s body taken away so she could be properly looked after. He needed to tend to the wounded. Arthur was still watching him though, his eyes unreadable, and Merlin gritted out, “My family fights for no king. I heal for no king. I help because there are people dying here, no other reason.”

“It’s an amicable one,” Arthur told him.

“I do not your assurance of that,” Merlin shot back, “It is men like you that bring war to people who do not want it or know how to fight in one. Freya was nothing more than a farmer’s daughter who didn’t know how to wield a sword until it was shoved into her hands.”

“I have no quarrel with her.”

He laughed bitterly. “I’m sure that’ll bring her back to life.”

Arthur frowned at him. “She was not the only casualty. In war, both sides lose many.”

“Yes, but it is your war,” Merlin argued, “Why should the innocent be dragged in to fight the battles of nobles?”

Arthur stepped around Freya to get closer to him. Perhaps it was because of the depth of the words that he hissed out. “War is not what I wanted. The people that have died…that is my fault. I know that.”

“Then why don’t you stop it?”

“They killed my mother,” Arthur retaliated and Merlin went sombre at the pain and grief that flashed in his blue eyes. To lose your mother, Merlin could only imagine and hope that he would never understand how Arthur felt.

“I know,” he whispered back sorrowfully, “I am sorry.”

Arthur nodded jerkily, expression hard to hide what he had just revealed and he grimaced across the valley. “I am sure you have work to do,” he told him firmly.

“More than I ever wanted, sire,” Merlin uttered frankly, holding Arthur’s gaze for a moment or two before he dipped to encircle Freya in his arms. He would see her through properly.

 

*

 

Lord Thomas Frey met them at the gates with a large smile and tension in his shoulders. He swung his arms out to drag Uther into a tight hug, and Merlin could only imagine the uncomfortable expression on his father-in-law’s face. Arthur shot him a look that clearly said “no, stop it, don’t laugh” even as his own lips stretched out into a grin. Thomas greeted Arthur with a respectful bow, as one was supposed to greet a King.

“My lord, it is wonderful to have you here, despite the circumstances,” he welcomed and Thomas’ eyes danced towards Merlin, who straightened his back and tried to look even a little bit like the consort he was supposed to look. “And I suppose this is Prince Merlin.”

“Just Merlin, please, no prince,” Merlin requested hurriedly, his smile strained.

“Well, of course,” Thomas conceded, but it was clear that he wasn’t impressed by what he saw. When the Lord turned, Merlin shifted from foot to foot, the hairs of his arms rising from the feeling of being under a microscope, and frowned unhappily. Arthur’s hand wove into his, drawing his attention.

“That could have gone worse,” he offered optimistically, and Merlin breathed out a laugh, shaking his head.

“He could have not lowered the drawbridge,” Merlin mused.

“He could have commented on that stupid neckerchief you’re wearing,” Arthur added and tugged on the end with a precarious grin. Merlin slapped his hand away with a mock gasp.

“I wouldn’t have to wear the neckerchief if you hadn’t marked your way up my neck last night,” he reminded him, and enjoyed the way that Arthur’s eyes darkened at the memory. “And besides, I like my neckerchief.”

“Well, red is definitely your colour,” Arthur pulled at the knot in the fabric one last time before offering Merlin his arm and leading them both inside.

They met Guinevere at dinner, a larger and more dramatic affair than Merlin would ever be used to. She was dressed in all her finery, dress flowing elegantly to the floor, and she smiled widely at them. Merlin had been worried that the girl would resent him, but she seemed just as happy to see him as she was to see Arthur. Guinevere bowed respectably to them both and insisted that “you must all call me, Gwen. It’s a name that fits much better considering soon we will all my family”.

Maybe she was still a little in love with Arthur, but it was clear who she loved most when she laid eyes on Lancelot. They widened and sparkled, and she stammered nervously until her brother, Elyan, who had an amused expression on his face interrupted with a loud, “I’m sure our guests would like dinner if you’re to continue this conversation, sister”, and she stopped abruptly, embarrassed.

It didn’t seem to bother Lancelot, not by the way he was smiling and watching and listening to every word. At Elyan’s comment, Lancelot took a confident step forward and requested permission to escort her to dinner, and Gwen nodded pleased, accepting his arm and pressing close to his side.

“Oh look, he’s smitten,” Arthur joked happily in his ear.

“Don’t you dare tease him,” Merlin warned.

“Merlin, it’s my duty as his cousin. You can’t take that from me. Besides, Lancelot teased me about you. It’s all about revenge.”

“Nope, I don’t believe it. Lancelot would never do such a thing.”

Arthur frowned a little. “Why does everyone always believe Lancelot over me?”

“Hmm, I can’t imagine why,” Merlin grinned and Arthur pressed a kiss to the back of his hand when no one was looking.

 

*

 

The first day that Merlin met Uther, he was covered in blood. He’d been a part of the Pendragon camp for nearly three months then, training under the head physician, Gaius. He was a cranky old man who accepted no failure, but he was damn good at his job, better than Merlin’s old teacher Edwin, and Merlin was at least sixty percent sure that Gaius had smiled at him yesterday. He considered that a success.

Some things, Gaius had told him on his third day, couldn’t be solved with magic. Unfortunately, amputation was one of them. Gilli was twenty years, the middle son of a noble, and only just more skilled in battle than the majority of the men he was fighting with. No manner of training, however, could heal an infection, and Merlin had tried desperately to block out the muffled screams. Once Gilli had reared up violently, hands reaching to fight Merlin just to get him to stop please for the love of the gods stop, and blood sprayed across Merlin’s cheekbones like hot oil when the saw jerked in the incision.

Gwaine reasserted his grip, hands at Gilli’s elbows as he told him firmly, “unless you want to walk around with half your leg hanging off, I wouldn’t fight”, and Gilli let out a broken sob. Everything had gone numb for Merlin, just for a few moments as he blinked through the red blur, looking dumbly at the leg, raw and darkened with blood. He thought he was going to be sick, but thankfully he managed to grasp at something that faintly resembled control. It was Gwaine’s soft sounding of his name that brought Merlin back to reality. The soldier looked at him with concern in his eyes, and Merlin thought about smiling reassuringly but decided against it. There was nothing reassuring about what was happening.

Merlin was still shaking when he was done, when the wound had been cauterised and Gilli had been taken away to rest, and his hands ached in the aftermath of the surgery, still pink with blood no matter how desperately he had scrubbed.

“It gets easier,” Gwaine assured him with a clap to his shoulder and understanding in his eyes.

Merlin wanted to believe him.

Arthur grimaced when he heard the news.  He was sympathetic when he gently collected Merlin’s hands in his own, and comforting when his thumb caressed the skin there. Merlin stared at their clasped limbs. He felt numb, like this was happening to someone else and he was just a passive observer, but he knew that wasn’t true, not with the way that each brush of his fingers shot jolts to his flesh and left a tingling that never quite faded.

“It was necessary,” Arthur reminded him softly, as if he believed Merlin would break at anything spoken louder than a whisper.

Maybe he would.

“He could have died,” he murmured.

“Yes, and you gave that boy a chance. You.” Arthur emphasised firmly.

“I almost didn’t. I stalled, I panicked, I…” Merlin stumbled and choked over his words, his throat tightening.

Arthur shushed him and Merlin couldn’t help but wonder when the king had gotten that close, so close that Merlin could see his reflection in the blue that stared back at him. “But you didn’t.”

Later, Arthur would admit that he’d wanted to kiss him then, but he knew it wasn’t the right time or place, and that Merlin wasn’t in his right mind for such a drastic change to their relationship, but god had he wanted to.

It was probably both a good and bad thing that Uther then chose that moment to interrupt them. He cleared his throat loudly and pointedly, and when they turned, Uther’s expression was pinched with irritation.

“Father.” Gone was the gentleness that had been used to ease Merlin’s nerves. Replaced by something hard, authoritative, controlled. Arthur’s hands fell away, leaving Merlin suddenly cold and clutching at thin air. Cheeks pink, he dropped the long limbs with a heavy thud to his sides and stared pointedly at the ground.

“Arthur, Sir Leon requests your presence,” Uther told his son firmly, and Merlin felt the eyes on him, burning as they watched suspiciously.

“Of course.”

Merlin looked up long enough to catch Arthur’s apologetic smile, and to let his eyes follow Arthur’s strong and commanding stance longingly as he walked away. Uther lingered and Merlin’s eyes flickered with embarrassment and uncertain. How does one act around the father of the King? It wasn’t something he had been taught. Still, he offered the man a polite smile that was weak at the edges.

Uther sniffed, angling his nose upward in an air of disgust before spinning on his heel and following his son up the slope in the hills.

It was expected really, but it still stung.

 

*

 

The wedding was to be a grand event. It was to be expected really. Gwen was Lord Thomas’ only daughter and it made sense that he would go as extravagant as was possible. Merlin walked into the main hall and felt his breath catch in his throat in surprise. Most of his time as consort to the king had been spent on fields, with the mud and the dead bodies, or in tents, with Arthur pressed against his side or officials at his ear. This though, this was how he had always imagined the nobility lived.

The ceiling was lined with candles, all lit and flickering lazily in the wind. The fires burned and warmed the large space to a comfortable stage, and made everything seem a little homey, welcoming. Rows and rows of chairs and tables were lined up together, the largest at the opposite side of the hall where Lord Thomas would sit with the bride and groom parties. Soon enough, each table would be covered and stuffed to the brim with plates of meat and bread and cheese and ale. A great feast to celebrate the marriage.

Arthur must have noticed the awe on his face because he leant over to promise him that “when I have the throne, we will have feasts like this every week, no, every day. Sometimes twice a day, if that is what my love demands.”

Merlin laughed, his smile bemused and fond. “I’d be as big as the banquet hall.”

“You and I both know that’s not true. You eat like a horse and never gain in size,” Arthur pressed his hand against Merlin’s stomach, “I doubt even a banquet hall could stop you.”

The wedding itself was sweet and simple, even with the vast numbers in the hall. Merlin had been surprised by the whole thing. In Ealdor, marriages were private between the voice of the gods and the couple, but he supposed that getting to witness something so sweet was just as good. Gwen was stunning, and Lancelot seemed dazed in her presence, his smile bordering on the edge of goofy. She beamed when Lancelot fumbled through his vows to her gods, not his own, and honestly, if that wasn’t love, what was?

The feast started with a cheerful cry and the clanging of metal goblets. Arthur shovelled food onto Merlin’s plate – “it’s been a long time since we had something decent to eat,” he argued when Merlin made a noise of objection around a mouthful of food, batting his hand away.

Lancelot and Gwen spent most of the feast speaking amongst themselves. They sat a little too closely, smiles just a little too wide, but they were married now, and when Lancelot glanced their way, Arthur grinned and gave him a thumbs up, whilst Merlin shook his head affectionately. Gwen caught the action and laughed behind her hand. Arthur didn’t even bother to look embarrassed, just winked cheekily at her and raised his cup to her.

“How soon do you think it will take before there are little Du Lac and Frey children running about these halls?” Arthur murmured to him conspiratorially.

Uther rolled his eyes. “Arthur, that’s hardly a fitting dinner conversation.”

“It’s the only subject of conversation that people will care about,” Arthur insisted, “The Frey’s are a small family, despite their power, and we both know that Lancelot wants nothing more than to have a huge family. Brothers and sisters, nephews, nieces, cousins. Anyway, just look at them, they can barely keep their hands off each other.”

“They’re newlyweds,” Merlin told him, carefully placing his hand on Arthur’s thigh beneath the table. He squeezed gently. “They are allowed to be a little sickening to watch.”

“I say that we will be uncles by next winter,” Arthur declared.

Merlin arched an eyebrow. “Oh? You sound confident.”

“Of course I am. Du Lac’s are half Pendragons.”

“And everyone knows that Pendragon’s breed like rabbits,” Merlin shot back, regretting quickly when he glanced at Uther.  Arthur laughed though.

“Too true. If you were a girl, you would already be with child, I am sure of that,” he assured his love.

“Hmm, a little Pendragon running around would be a sight to see,” Merlin muttered, a smile playing on his lips, “An heir. Blond haired, blue eyed…”

“Nonsense,” Uther sniffed. Both sets of eyes darted to him cautiously, and he continued like he hadn’t noticed, “Pendragon’s have dark hair. Arthur here was the exception. Blame those damned Tully genes for that.”

“Dark hair, blue eyes,” Arthur agreed, shoulders releasing the tension and his smile widening once more.  His hand pressed against Merlin’s. “So this is future child of ours, a boy or a girl?”

“Either. Any. I would not care as long as they are happy and alive.” Merlin stated honestly, “Although…” he hesitated uncertainly, “I had thought…should it ever happen – and the king having an heir is required – that should this child be our daughter, that we name her in memory of your mother.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, no doubt from Uther, but Merlin didn’t glance at him as he watched the emotions siege across Arthur’s face. Shock, pain, confusion, happiness. And then the soft smile, a real one; a smile that reached his eyes and quivered on his lips with the feeling of it all. He reared forward and pressed their lips together before Merlin could stop it. He tensed, his mind whirling with the order to pull away, god, how disrespectful, but Arthur was clinging to him so wonderfully that Merlin decided to let him have this, relaxing into it and taking control so the kiss was something softer, chaste.

Arthur rested their forehead together. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Merlin glanced cautiously at Uther. His expression was blank, lost in a memory perhaps, but he noticed the eyes on him and focused. He stared for a moment and Merlin thought perhaps he had done the wrong thing, said the wrong thing, if he had made Uther’s view of him even worse – and then Uther nodded. It was short and sharp, but it screamed approval and that sent a rush of relief through Merlin to settle the nerves that had settled there.

But it didn’t. In fact, it made them increase. It was like his body was shouting at him – no, his magic was shouting. Warning him, maybe. It was like before, on the journey here, that trepidation that something was going to happen. His eyes flittered around the hall, confused, trying desperately to place the source of his discomfort. That’s when he noticed it: how many guards there were; how still they stood; how looks were being exchanged over the heads of the Pendragon men; how silent Lord Thomas was being, just sitting and drinking and watching.

“Arthur…” Merlin whispered cautiously, eyebrows furrowed together. Arthur looked up at him confused and he opened his mouth to continue. Something whistled behind him, and then pain. Oh god, pain. So much pain. His magic jumped, even when he couldn’t move, and rushed towards it. Merlin blinked, confused, and watched the horror grow in Arthur’s eyes. It felt wrong, watching it, and he reached out with a shaky hand to comfort him.

His hands were red.

His hands were dripping red.

Blood. There was blood.

His eyes dropped to the source. His blood. It was his blood. An arrow protruded from his chest, surreal and it all seemed fake. Like it wasn’t really there; that this was all a fabric of his imagination. But then the pain flared again, and Merlin gasped hoarsely.

And that is when chaos reigned.

 

*

 

The first time Arthur kissed him, they were fighting. That was hardly a surprise. It wasn’t uncommon for those in the king’s camp to hear the raised voices of their leader and their healer echoing around camp. It wasn’t proper, Merlin knew that, it went against everything he had been taught – but, the fact that Arthur let him argue, was something else entirely. He still pulled the king card of course, usually as a last resort that sent a pleasing rush through Merlin’s system because that meant he was winning.

He won a lot.

They fought about everything. About how hard Arthur pushed his soldiers’ in training – “they won’t survive in battle if they’re too busy healing from injuries you gave them!” “They won’t survive at all if they’re not prepared to fight!” About the town’s folks that keep getting too close to the battle – “Well, what do you expect me to do?” “Protect the towns! You’re supposed to be king, right? Then protect your people!” About the amount of food that was being taken and wasted when people are suffering and starving – “Times are hard for everyone, Merlin.” “Yes, well you don’t have to make it harder!”.

Merlin couldn’t quite remember what they were fighting about – probably something to do with Arthur being a clotpole, Merlin was sure – but he could recall one minute just seething rage, burning and frustrating, so strong that it made him shake, and then lips were on him. The kiss was hard, rough, angry even, like it was another way of dominating. Not to let Arthur win, Merlin had grabbed and bitten until there was blood, had let Arthur hold him tightly enough that the sharp edges of his armour pressed roughly into Merlin’s skin. He had tugged at it sharply, and Arthur had shucked up his shirt to splay gantlet covered hands into his stomach.

It was the cold that snapped Merlin back to the real world.

“No,” he muttered. He stopped grabbing and started pushing. “No, no, no, no.”

Arthur let the space grow between them, although his face was confused, his blue eyes blown and darkened with lust, and his lips bruised – Merlin was flushed, knowing that he had done that.

“No, no, we can’t, we – I’m a warlock, and you-“

“I love you,” Arthur interrupted him, and Merlin spluttered and gaped, mouth open and eyes wide.

“Love,” he squeaked out after a moment.

Arthur’s face was open, vulnerable in a way that Merlin would say that he had only ever seen on their wedding day, and he nodded. And then he waited, hopeful. Arthur had told him that he had been terrified. “I had never meant to say it,” he whispered, “Not like that. I wanted…I don’t know, the right time? If there ever was a right time.”

“I’m glad you told me,” Merlin had muttered back and drawn him into a kiss.

Because, in that tent, Merlin had done something that truly scared him – his heart thumping in his chest, he had breathed his feelings, four words too heavy with meaning for their simplicity, and sealed the fate of the rest of his life.

 

*

 

Merlin could hear voices. They were fading in and out – or maybe he was fading out? He couldn’t be sure. He felt…not good. Everything was sticky and heavy – wet maybe, laden and he felt adrift. He needed to focus, to hold onto…something. Yeah, something, he needed to….

His magic sung, and his skin felt itchy, and god, he wanted to scratch. But his arms, they weren’t moving. There was a pathetic noise, weak and painful, and he realised with a start that he was the source. It came rushing back too quickly, and when his eyes darted down, arrow still firmly implanted in his chest and he wondered how the hell he could have forgotten.

It was an ambush, he realised. A murder at a wedding. His magic had kept him on edge, but close enough to it, not enough to be alert and – Arthur! Where’s Arthur?

He tried to move. It was hard, too hard – gods, he was dying, dying, he was – but he did it and even through shaky vision, he could see the madness that had overtaken the room.

So many weapons drawn. So much shouting. Uther was shouting, the veins in his neck pulsing and he vaguely mused how amusing it was. Lord Thomas was screaming back, composure lost to the indignation he felt. Around people’s legs, he could see Gwen – wonderfully poor Gwen – distressed and shaking and Lancelot letting her cling to him, let her take comfort even though his body was tense, poised for a fight, his hand firmly attached to the sword he had carefully raised to the throat of one of the attackers – Merlin didn’t recognise him. Maybe he should have. Maybe he was important, someone that Arthur had mentioned when he was explaining the ridiculous linage of nobility. Maybe he was just some mercenary who didn’t care who he killed.

Oh god, where was Arthur?

Something whispered around him and he turned towards it stiffly, trying to hear, hear, he needed to – and then there was blue, Arthur’s eyes, he had spent so much time staring at them that he could recognise them anywhere. They were wet, creased with pain, and Merlin just wanted to fix it.

He tried to raise his hand, managed it a few inches before Arthur’s fingers wrapped around his palm and dragged it to his face. It was held tightly, Arthur inclining his face into the limb. There was blood on his cheek now, Merlin noted. His blood.

“Arthur,” he tried to get out, his voice rasping and sounding so unlike his own.

The blond shook his head and said something, but Merlin couldn’t hear it properly, not over the muffling of his ears. He could hear the tone though, could hear the way that his wavered with pain and fear. Merlin didn’t like it. Not because of him.

“A-Arthur,” he repeated, “I…”

He didn’t get to finish. The words choked in his throat, and there was blood on his tongue. Arthur let out a strangled noise. Merlin tried again, desperate because he needed to say it. He needed Arthur to know. If he was going to – Arthur needed to –

Merlin saw the moment that Arthur’s face hardened, the way that everything shut down systematically and purposefully. It was a bad sign, it felt like a bad sign. It was the face of someone broken, the face of someone with nothing to lose and no, no, no, no, Arthur, no, you can’t –

Arthur pressed a kiss to his forehead, something that he could just about feel, and then he stood up slowly. Merlin gasped after him, but there was nothing that he could do. Nothing, but watch.

 

*

 

The wedding had been impromptu. Arthur had proposed in the darkness of their – yes, their, Merlin had joked about it spending so much time there and Arthur had shrugged and said something about making it official - tent and Merlin had thought it was a joke at first. He’d laughed, and Arthur had frowned.

“Marrying me is really that funny,” he demanded.

“No, but…” Merlin stopped, blinked once, “wait, you were serious?”

Arthur’s eyebrows inclined downwards just that bit more. “Of course I was serious. I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

Merlin had tried to explain as gentle as possible that Arthur was going to be king. He had duties, he had expectations. To marry a woman, to have a queen, to have an heir. It had been something that he had been firmly refusing to think about. He couldn’t risk it, not with the way that his heart was being placed so firmly on the line, and knowing that he would – would, not could - lose it all would have ruined him. Even speaking of it then had made his chest hurt.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “That’s hardly important.”

It was Merlin’s turn to frown. “Look, if you aren’t going to take your position as ruler seriously, you shouldn’t accept it. There are expectations Arthur, and you can’t just-“

“There is no law that says I must marry a woman or that I must have a queen, I had Leon check for me,” Arthur flushed at the memory, “And as for heirs, my family has children by the dozen. If we do not take in children of our own, there are options.” He intertwined their hands and Merlin realised that Arthur had truly thought about this, “The only thing that is certain is that I love you and I want to be tied with you for the rest of my life. War is ravaging both sides and who knows how long I have –“ he hushed Merlin before he could argue, “- but I want to spend however long that is with you.”

Arthur says that Merlin cried and fell into his arms. Merlin denies that such a thing happened and makes some obscene gesture about what position their king really takes.

It doesn’t really matter what happened, all that matters was that in the end, they were to be married.

Uther had fought his son about it of course, Merlin expected nothing else. The impending marriage had been new, something that had him feeling hurt and betrayed and increasingly furious when Arthur had huffed out a loophole that said technically it didn’t have to be him, just another Pendragon. Merlin had felt sorry for Lancelot at the time, ever loyal, perhaps too loyal, being forced into an arranged marriage and for the sake of him and Arthur. He had been the one who gave Merlin away, “an honour that I will take until we have won the crown and we can do this properly, with your mother at your side,” Lancelot vowed.

The wedding had happened in the dew of the early morning, with Arthur’s closest friends and knights as witnesses. They had done their own private wedding later, something to satisfy Merlin’s gods, when the throngs of battle had died out and it was just them.

Those days were the happiest of his life. He only wished that they had lasted longer.

 

*

 

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Each step that Arthur took unsteady but purposeful, resolved. Resolved though, to what – that’s what made Merlin worry. He tried again to call out, but he just gurgled some. He blinked and his vision blurred and cleared and whitened. He was close, so close, any moment and that would be it. The end.

He wanted to die, to end the pain, so that he would never get to see the fate of his people, because they were his people damn it, even for just a short time. He wanted to stay alive as long as possible, because then maybe, just maybe, he could help, he could, he didn’t know, his magic was fluxating and he didn’t know whether it would work if at all, but he had to try didn’t he? If he could just save someone just one last time, if he could just save Arthur, then maybe –

His magic sung to him, shrill and sharp, and it made his head pound. The tingling in his fingers began again, stronger than before, and he winced, his toes curling in defence. Curling. Moving. He was moving. It still hurt, ached even, but no longer numb, no longer.

His breathing shook. He was healing. Healing – his magic.

Merlin turned his head, his neck clicked and mouthed – still no words, he wondered how long that would take, how long it would take for movement to come back and – not soon enough, not at all.

His ears popped and voices came back. Arthur’s was the strongest, broken – gods, my poor king – and tired, no, no, please not tired. Merlin begged to the gods for it not to be tired. Because it only meant one thing, and gods, this couldn’t be happening.

“I loved him,” Arthur bit out, “I loved him and you-“

“He was a warlock, he would have betrayed you, honestly sire,” Thomas spat the word out mockingly, “I was just doing you a favour.”

Arthur cried out like a wounded animal and tried to make a jump towards the Lord. Drawn weapons automatically turned to him and Merlin’s heart jumped into his throat in momentary terror, dropping only slightly when Uther wrapped his arms around his son, forcibly holding him back.

“No, no, they killed him, he,” Arthur fought back.

“I will not lose another member of this family,” Uther shot back angrily, voice laced with grief. For him? Maybe.

The worst part was the way that Arthur slumped. He no longer looked the part of the future king. He looked defeated, weak, done. “What’s the point? What’s the point without-“his voice hitched, “They killed him Father, they-”

“I know, I know.”

“Why?” Arthur demanded forcibly, fight returning and renewing Merlin with hope.

Thomas laughed bitterly. “Do you really think that I would let the humiliation you caused me and mine to stand without punishment? You betrayed our agreement Uther, if you wished safety here, you should never have allowed your son to marry that charlatan.”

“Father…”From behind him, Elyan said hesitantly.

“Be quiet, Elyan,” Thomas spat back.

The boy scowled. His eyes fell sorrowfully to Merlin’s body and then back to his sister. “You’ve gone too far,” he told him.

“Do not think that just because you are my son that I would stay my blade and keep your head attached to your shoulders,” Thomas threatened, “I have many sons where you came from.”

Magic flooded Merlin’s system and he gasped, his breath gone at the suddenness of it, of the strength behind it. He wanted it to stop, he didn’t want – because he knew what was going to happen. He could feel it in all of him, everything called out warning, but there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing anyone could do, because Arthur was already breaking from his father’s arms, rage and mourning overwhelming him. He always was a hot head, he had told Arthur that one day it was going to get him killed.

Not like this though, Merlin thought. It happened so fast, but Merlin saw it in slow motion. Saw the way that Uther’s eyes widened and his hands hooked on nothing. Saw Lancelot’s face screwing up as he went to call out and then stopped short. Saw Eylan reaching for his father, trying to stop and being too late. He saw when Thomas’ eyes widened, probably surprised by the unexpected act, and his sword raised in a skilled swipe. It went down heavy and Arthur fell. It was sickening the noise, and Merlin wished that he couldn’t hear again. It would better than listening to his beloved’s head separating from his shoulders. It rolled, caught in the rivets of the stone flooring. Merlin wanted to be sick.

He couldn’t block out the bloodcurdling screams – Gwen’s he thought, a curse and a sob for her father’s name on her lips, and Uther, surely Uther, he had just watched his son – Merlin stopped thinking about it. He couldn’t stop the warmth of magic, instinctively fixing not knowing that this wasn’t saving him, this would destroy him. He couldn’t block out the image of Arthur, murdered, mutilated, there was so much blood, so much, but he closed his eyes like he could.

His eyes burnt with tears.

His finger twitched.

 

**Author's Note:**

> And done!
> 
> Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. (Not sorry).
> 
> I have [tumblr](http://gladers.co.vu/) if you want to follow.
> 
> Oh, and anyone who's waiting for the next chapter of [In Times of Desperate Need](http://archiveofourown.org/works/587967), I lost my original draft of the last two chapters so I've been trying to find it, and since I can't, I'll be rewriting the last ones, so give me some leeway there. They will up as soon as I possible can get them done! And if you haven't read it, I have linked in case you want to because it's my longest fic and I'd love if you could read it :)


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